


Home

by Sam_Eller



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly feels, Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, One-Shot, Protective Dean, Teenchesters, Upset Sam, Weechester, sam and dean - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 22:07:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11022549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sam_Eller/pseuds/Sam_Eller
Summary: The Winchester brothers may have been deprived of a house, but that never prevented them from having a home and everything that accompanied it. Teenchester. One-shot. Hurt/Distressed/Sam and Caring/Protective/Dean





	Home

Note: this is a tumblr request from a lovely follower :) It also has a slight link to my fic "Enough" but it's not super important or anything.

* * *

Sam had been miserable since Dean picked him up from school.

Absolutely miserable.

Which was fine, completely normal.

What twelve-year-old didn't get grumpy every now and again?

The truth was, Dean was shocked his little brother wasn't a grouch more often. Considering how sleep deprived the kid often was - thanks to the family business - and how little the munchkin ate; with no rest and no protein, it was a wonder Sam wasn't permanently gloomy. And while Dean hated to see his kid unhappy, there was nothing alarming about the younger boy's state of mind.

What was really getting to the teen, was that he had no idea why Sam was moping about.

Dean always knew.

Sometimes it was Dad that sent Sam's mood plummeting, on occasion it was the hunt, and every now and then it was a schoolyard asshole. Whatever it was or _whoever_ it was, Dean always knew, even if the kid was just feeling a little life weary, his big brother knew about it. Sam trusted him, he told him everything, and even when he didn't admit to, Dean could sense it.

Because Dean knew Sam.

Because he fucking raised him.

But this time, he was clueless.

The teen had been standing out front of Sam's school and watched as the small child trudged out of the building. The kid had given his older brother a twitch of a smile, but it was nothing close to the million high-wattage grin the older boy had become accustomed to receiving. Dean had done his best to pry details from his little brother on the walk back to the motel, but Sam had been stubbornly resistant to all of the elder Winchester's methods. He had evaded all gentle prodding and shrugged off most outright questioning. He had been direct enough to assure his big brother that no one at school had laid a hand on him, but that was the most Dean could get out of his kid.

And it was driving him nuts!

What made it worse, was that Sam wasn't being moody or over-tired-grumpy, he was upset. He was sullen and withdrawn, remaining hidden behind his hair as he bent over his schoolwork at the rickety motel table.

Dean chewed on his bottom lip, feeling oddly insecure about his current situation, it was one he was terribly unfamiliar with. It was rare that the he didn't know what was going on with the youngest Winchester. It was a new thing for the teen, and he didn't like it. Dean was a little concerned that he was receiving a glimpse into how things were going to play out in Sam's soon-to-arrive teenage years.

The younger boy suffering in silent misery, and refusing to open up to his big brother.

But that was okay, Dean was simply going to have to adjust.

He was going to have to expand his arsenal of Sammy-tools.

He was going to find a way, because failing his kid was not an option.

It would never be a fucking option.

Dean twisted the remote around in his fingers, the TV was on, an old cop-show playing out on the screen…not that he was paying it any mind. Dean's eyes were focussed on one thing, and one thing alone.

His baby brother.

Sam was pouring over his school work, based on the pencil crayons he had scattered across the tabletop, Dean would hazard a guess that art was the subject of the night. The older boy had purchased the new coloured pencils for his little brother just that month for the art class he had to take at his new school. He knew that Sam excelled at academics, but he had also been pretty good at the artistic aspects of his education. The kid had always coloured perfectly within the lines in kindergarten, and enjoyed being in those cute little plays that schools tended to put on. However, none of that explained why Sam's shoulders were stooping more with each additional minute he spent on his art homework.

Dean tossed the television remote to the side and scooted forward on the mattress until he was seated on the end of it, where he was closest to Sam. The teen tapped his feet on the shag carpet as he eyed his little brother, who had yet to alter his focus.

"Hey, Sammy, what do you want for dinner?"

The inquiry at least managed to elicit a reaction from the younger boy.

A shrug.

Dean released a silent sigh.

Sam had never been simple, not a day in his life.

The kid had been intricate and complicated since birth, but Dean had always been able to figure him out.

And he would again, he just needed to keep trying.

He would try forever for Sam.

"We could go to that diner down the street, if you want?"

Another shrug, even slighter than the first.

"How about we order in some pizza from that place downtown? We could get some of those breadsticks you liked." Dean offered, recalling when they arrived a little over a month ago and splurged for takeout, how Sam – who barely ate enough food to keep a damn bird alive – had practically inhaled the breadsticks.

However, the younger boy didn't offer so much as a twitch of his shoulders in response to the suggestion.

Dean frowned, his hopes falling as he searched for his next words. A part of the teen wished that his brother was still young enough to be picked up and tickled until he was squealing with delight.

Dean opened his mouth to make his next attempt at cajoling a few syllables out of the miserable child, when Sam finally spoke up.

Well, he spoke. There wasn't much 'up' about it.

"We don't have enough money for pizza." He stated softly.

"Yeah we do, dude." Dean replied, his eyebrows raised as he stood and made his way toward the tiny kitchen, where his little brother had set up shop.

"We already ran out of the money Dad left us." Sam murmured down to the table.

Dean pursed his lips. He hated how financially aware his little brother always was. It didn't matter what lengths Dean went to in order to keep his kid living in blissful ignorance, Sam always knew too damn much.

He was twelve fucking years old, he shouldn't be worried about how much money was in the bank.

"Don't worry about the money, Sammy. I've got it covered." Dean confirmed with a reassuring smile, not that Sam bothered to look up and see it.

"You shouldn't spend your money on me."

The dejected whisper confused the hell out of Dean.

"What are you talking about? Why the hell not?"

The silence went on so long, that the teen was on the verge of repeating his question, when he received his response.

"Cause I'm a fucking moron."

"Hey! Don't you ever say shit like that! Not goddamn ever!"

Sam flinched at his brother's outburst, momentarily glancing up at the teen from beneath his bangs, before replying.

"But it's true."

"It's the biggest batch of bullshit I've ever heard in my life." Dean spat back.

"That's not what the kids at school think." Sam mumbled.

"Did they call you that?"

"Not exactly." Sam shrugged.

"What, _exactly_ , did they call you?"

"idiot. Stupid. Dummy. Stuff like that."

"Who said those things to you?" Dean questioned through clenched teeth.

"The kids in my class."

"All of them."

"Most of them." The younger boy clarified, with a shrug, as though it didn't matter. As though the very idea of it didn't make Dean dangerously homicidal.

"Those little shits." He seethed.

"Relax, Dean." Sam sighed. "They were right. I _am_ stupid."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Sam, you're not stupid. Though I am starting to think that maybe you need your hearing checked—

"I am stupid!"

Dean was taken aback by the volume and ferocity of the declaration and searched the young face that stared up at him for a moment, before it coloured in shame and lowered once again. Dean released a long breath, realizing it was time for some gentle prodding, as he dropped down into the chair across the table from his brother.

"Why, Sam? Why do you think you're stupid?" He asked, unable to filter the absurdity of the situation from his tone, but luckily Sam didn't seem to notice – or perhaps he didn't care. Dean ducked his head, trying to spot his little brother under his mess of hair. All he could see was the bottom lip the kid was chewing on.

The teen didn't push. Because when it came to Sam, it was either gentle prodding or silent encouragement. He had tried the first, now it was time for the second.

Dean wasn't a patient person, but for Sam, he would wait.

He would wait for as long as it took.

He always did and he always would.

This time, it took nearly ten minutes.

Ten minutes of Dean sitting there and watching Sam roll his pencil back and forth across his page, before the twelve-year-old spoke.

"I can't draw a house."

The sixteen-year-old didn't know what he had been expecting to hear, but that wasn't it.

"Come again?"

Sam sucked in a deep breath, sounding far too weary for his young age. He glanced between Dean and the tabletop as he began his explanation.

"In art class we are learning how to use shading and dimensions to make things look more real."

The teen nodded, following along so far.

"For our term project Mrs. Johnston told us to draw our home."

Dean winced, knowing that for most kids that would be simple enough, but not for Sammy.

_It was difficult to draw your home when you didn't fucking have one_ , Dean thought bitterly to himself.

"Did you tell her …" Dean faded off, because what the hell was Sam supposed to tell his teacher? That he didn't have a home to draw and he hadn't had once since he was an infant? That they had never stayed one place long enough for the kid to even consider it a home?

Yeah, because none of that sounded the least bit questionable.

"I told her that we just moved and we hadn't found a house yet and that we moved around lots, so I didn't really know what to draw. She just said to draw the last place I lived. But I didn't want to draw the last motel, or the one before that. Then there was the apartment from a couple states ago, but I couldn't figure out how to draw that one. I couldn't even remember where we stayed before that."

Dean could remember where they had stayed before that, some rundown piece-of-shit shack, which would make a better candidate for a horror movie than an art project.

"I thought of maybe drawing Bobby's place, but we haven't been there in awhile and I didn't think I would be able to remember it right." Sam mumbled down to the tabletop.

The teen craned his neck to try to catch a glance of the page Sam had been working so diligently on for the past couple hours, but he had no luck with the younger boy's forearms covering the paper.

"So what did you end up drawing?" Dean questioned, partly out of the need to get to the bottom of his kid brother's misery, and partly out of genuine curiosity.

There was silence, which left Dean waiting, again.

Finally, Sam answered, lifting his gaze as he did.

"The Impala."

Dean wanted to smile – he knew that Sam loved that car just as much as he did – but the moisture gathering in the hazel eyes stole the grin from the teen's lips.

"What's wrong with that? We've spent most our lives in that car, it's more like a home than anything else."

Sam sniffed and nodded along with his big brother's assessment.

"I know. That's why I picked it. I mean it's not a house or anything, but it sorta feels like how I think a home would feel like. Even more now that it's yours." Sam admitted with a shy smile, but his eyes were still glistening.

Dean's mouth twitched in return. He was happy that his inheritance of the family vehicle had only increased its value in his little brother's eyes. The Impala was just as much Sam's as it was Dean's, and the teen did everything he could to be sure the younger boy never forgot that. The elder Winchester was elated over Sam's love for their car, but that joy was dampened by the sadness emitting from the child across the table.

"What happened, Sammy?" Dean queried softly.

Sam sniffed again before responding.

"I went to hand it in today and Mrs. Johnston laughed."

The teen's jaw clenched as his little brother's voice cracked.

"She laughed in front of the whole class and said I must have been confused because that wasn't a home. She held it up in front of everyone and they all laughed."

Tears escaped the large puppy-dog-eyes as Sam continued to speak, Dean's heart fracturing more with each teardrop that marked a trail on the young face.

"At recess everyone made fun of me and called me stupid and a bunch of other names, saying that I didn't know what a home was. But I _do_ know what a home is. Just cause I never had a house doesn't mean I don't know what a home is. It's where you feel safe and loved. And when you leave it, you miss it, and you can't wait to get back to it. When you do get back, you feel relieved inside like you can finally breathe again. It is where you are happiest. And every time you think of it, it makes you feel warm inside. Right?" Sam inquired, looking up at his big brother with a beseeching gaze.

Sam wasn't searching for validation; his question was genuine. He wanted to know if what he said was accurate. He wanted to know if his thinking was correct. Because as sure as he thought he was, as sure as he had sounded in his speech, Sam had never had a home before and he knew there was no way he could know for certain what it was like.

Dean could never be considered an expert on homes, but he knew more than anyone else in the room – which brought about a whole new level of heartbreak – so he was the one who needed to provide an answer.

The teen pondered back through his limited experience and gave a thoughtful nod. Sam was right, Dean wasn't sure how the kid understood what it was like to have a home when there was no way he had ever remembered having one, but he did. The younger boy had nailed it. He had perfectly described every feeling that accompanied a home and everything that it was meant to be.

"Yeah, Sammy. That's exactly right." Dean responded softly.

Sam nodded in return, his eyes still shimmering, but tears no longer tracing his cheeks.

"That's why I drew the Impala, cause it's the closest thing I could think of to a home. It was stupid of me. I should have known she meant a house." Sam stated with a sniff.

"You're not stupid, Sam!" Dean argued, standing and moving to squat next to his little brother. "A home doesn't have to be a house. Your teacher is a moron. You didn't do anything dumb or stupid or _wrong_. Our lives are just different, and most people don't understand that."

Dean's words weren't nearly enough, he knew that, and he hated it. They didn't erase the hurt Sam was feeling or make everything okay. They did little to reassure the kid and didn't even bring a smile to his face. But they were the truth, and sometimes that was all Dean had to offer.

"Where's the picture you drew?"

Sam frowned at the question, and glanced down at the paper he had strategically covered with his arms.

"The one of the Impala." Dean specified.

Sam's face only fell impossibly further as he nodded towards the bookbag that had been dropped next to his bed. Dean sent the pre-teen a reassuring smile and supportively squeezed one of the knobby knees before extending to his full height and marching over to the abandoned backpack.

"Front pocket." The dejected tone informed.

The teen unzipped the bag and pulled out a paper that appeared to have been carelessly shoved inside it. He held the wrinkled sheet of paper to his chest and smoothed it out before pulling it away to get a good look.

It was, indeed, a piece of art.

"Sammy, this is incredible!" Dean marvelled aloud as he observed the image of the familiar vehicle and examined the likeness of each detail. Regardless of the pain the art class seemed to have delivered, it had surely taught the young boy a thing or two as well. The drawing was by-far the best Sam had ever done.

Dean frowned at the tear in the top right corner of the page, the grass stain in the bottom left, and the shoeprint stamped in the center. Dean was a hunter, and he knew a thing or two about tracking prints, enough to know that the shoe that had tarnished the magnificent drawing, was far too big to be his kid brother's.

Those asshole classmates had clearly gotten their grimy fingers, or – more accurately – feet, on Sam's artwork. But even the markings from the abuse, could not take away from the beauty of the image.

"Seriously, Sam. This is fucking awesome!" Dean praised, while he made his way back to the table, with the drawing in hand.

The younger boy shrugged.

"I've had lots of practice drawing the car." He dismissed modestly. "But not houses."

"You've drawn those before."

Sam shook his head.

"I've never drawn one before. That's why I can't figure this out! I don't know how to do it." The littlest Winchester declared miserably.

The teen's brow furrowed, because that just couldn't be the case. Sam had spent a good chunk of his childhood colouring and drawing on everything he could get his hands on: old maps, take-out menus, newspapers, Dean's school papers, Dad's research. There was no way that the kid had never doodled a house before. Dean racked his brain, searching for an example. He thought of all the birthday and holiday cards his kid brother had given him, and all the scribbles on all the motel notepads over the past decade, as well as the millions of pictures the older boy had pinned to the fridge or tucked safely into his duffel. Dean even thought of that time in Nevada when the boys had been holed up in some stuffy-motel room while it stormed for _days_ , Sam had spent the first couple days drawing on every sheet of paper Dean could locate. The more the teen reflected, the more certain he became that Sam had never once drawn a house. And while that fact seemed absolutely ludicrous at first, it began to make some sense. After all, Sam had very limited experience with houses. He mostly lived in motel rooms and apartments, or a rundown cabin on occasion. The few houses they had ever stayed or squatted in were often too shabby to be considered anything more than shacks. Other than that, Sam's only other frame of reference for a house would be the occasions when the boys stayed with Bobby or Pastor Jim, which always happened rather sporadically and only ever lasted a short while.

The more Dean played back Sam's young life, the more he realized how completely understandable it was that the kid had never once been inspired to illustrate a house.

"I can help." Dean offered. He was no artist and he hadn't had much practice drawing houses, but it would seem he had more than Sam.

The younger boy looked doubtful, but gave an appreciative nod of his head.

"Alright. Let's see what you got so far." Dean stated, dropping down in the chair next to Sam's and sliding it even closer to the younger boy.

Sam was hesitant, but after a moment he uncovered his paper, reluctance pouring from his frame.

Dean glanced at the homework, seeing the thin outline of a small simple house and not failing to notice the eraser marks littering the page.

"Not bad, buddy. That's a solid start. What are you basing this off of?"

"I don't know. I thought maybe I would draw the house that I want us to live in someday." Sam confessed softly with a shrug.

Dean smiled at the thought, hoping to God and whatever else, that someday Sammy would have a real home and maybe – just maybe – Dean could have one with him.

"Sounds awesome. Let's get busy and draw the dream house of yours. We'll give you a white picket fence and everything." Dean joked with a grin, nudging the slender shoulders next to him as he picked up a pencil crayon.

"You mean you'll give _us_ a fence. It's our home." Sam added, his dimples making a welcome appearance as his eyes shone with joy instead of tears.

Dean felt his heart clench as he nodded in agreement, more than content that his little brother wanted a home with him, even if it was just imaginary.

"Our home." He repeated with a nod.

The brothers spent most the evening sitting side-by-side at the rickety motel table, creating their home. In the end, it wasn't an extravagant mansion, but rather a simply two-story house, with a tree in the front, a soccer ball on the lawn, a '67 Chevy Impala in the driveway, and framed by a white picket fence.

To any other human being, it would be nothing more than average.

But to the Winchester boys, it was the stuff of dreams.

Later that night, after the pizza had been ordered and eaten, Sam and Dean were camped out on the couch in their small rented room. The teen was stretched across the sofa with his little brother, basking in the enjoyable simplicity of their shared evening and admiring the piece of art he held in his right hand. Before even half of Die Hard had played out on the screen, Sam's head began to bob as exhaustion crept over the younger boy. Dean didn't bother to stifle the fond smile that pulled at his lips, as he reached out to wrap his arm across the bony shoulders and pull the thin frame into his side.

The twelve-year-old huffed softly, but didn't pull away, instead he tugged his legs up onto the cushions and situated himself more comfortably against the teen's body.

"You don't have to keep that." Sam declared, his jaw moving against Dean's chest as the small hand he had resting on the older boy's abdomen, twitched and pointed to the tattered paper.

"I know." Dean replied, because he was well aware of his rights. And while he hadn't been able to keep every single one of his little brother's creations, he knew that Sam's drawing of the Impala was one that was being placed carefully into the envelope at the bottom of Dean's duffel, along with several cards, drawings, and report cards.

The teen glanced down to see his kid smiling up at him, before the hazel eyes shifted back to the television. Dean followed his little brother's gaze, watching John McClane kick some serious ass, as his brain mulled over something entirely unrelated to the action movie.

Dean cleared his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the TV screen as he spoke.

"Sam, uhh, you know all that stuff you said about what a home is? How it makes you feel safe and you miss it, and all that stuff?"

Dean felt the up and down movement of the shaggy head against his ribs before he heard his little brother's response.

"Yeah."

"How did you know all that? I mean, have you ever felt that way before, about anywhere we lived?" Dean inquired, his mind unable to forget how accurate the child's description was of something he had never truly possessed – or so the older Winchester had thought.

"No. I like when we got stay with Bobby or Pastor Jim, but I don't think their houses ever make me feel that way."

Dean nodded along with what he had expected to hear, but couldn't stop his heart from sinking in disappointment; because Sam deserved to have a home and all the feelings that came along with it. Dean couldn't think of a single person that deserved to feel safe, loved, relieved, and happy more than Sammy.

"But all those things, all those things that I think people feel when they are home…"

Sam faded off and Dean tore his eyes from the bloody action sequence to glance down and watch his kid biting down on his bottom lip.

Dean waited.

He was always willing to wait for Sam.

He distractedly observed the classic film along with the younger boy, though Dean knew neither of them were really following along.

"I feel all those things with you, Dean."

The hushed, yet confident confession stole the breath from the teen's lungs. He stared at the TV, the screen becoming blurry as his eyes misted over. He swallowed thickly, feeling his little brother's ribs expand against his hip as the young boy sucked in a deep breath and continued to speak.

"I always feel safe and loved when I'm with you. I miss you when you go hunting with Dad, and I feel relieved and like I can breathe again when you come back. I'm always happiest when we are together. Whenever I'm at school and I talk about you or think about you, or when I get out and see you waiting for me, I always feel warm inside."

Dean tried to blink back the tears obstructing his vision and swallow the lump growing in his throat, as he felt Sam poke playfully at his ribs.

"Not girly-warm or anything. Just normal warm, happy and peaceful – like everything is good. You know?" Sam clarified.

Dean nodded, quickly realizing that his brother's eyes were trained on the action movie, just as Dean's were, and he wouldn't be able to see the older boy's motion of agreement.

"Yeah. Yeah, buddy. I know what you mean. I feel the same way, little brother." The teen concurred, his voice rough with emotion.

"Really?" Sam questioned.

Dean felt the kid's head move against his chest, and he glanced down to see two giant hazel eyes staring up at him in uncertain wonder.

Like he didn't know how much he meant to the teen.

Like he didn't know that he was everything good in Dean's world.

Like he didn't know that he brought his big brother more joy and peace than anything or anyone else ever could.

Sam looked up at the older boy as though he had always desired to be enough, but was never certain that he would be.

"Of course, kiddo." Dean confirmed, his green eyes staring intently at the child nestled against him.

Sam sent a brilliant grin up at his brother, as though he had just been given the most valuable of gifts.

Dean relished the sight of the joyful kid, before returning his gaze to the television gleaming through the dark room, blinking and swallowing in an effort to contain his avalanching emotions and save-face. He felt Sam's eyes on him for a minute longer, before the shaggy head rolled against his shirt and angled back toward John McClane.

Dean glanced at the drawing still held in his hand, lit up enough by the unnatural glow of the television for the older boy to spot Sam's brilliant attention to detail and the dirtied shoeprint that scuffed the paper.

"When I drop you off at school tomorrow, I want you to point out those assholes who messed with my baby." Dean demanded with a growl, gently smoothing out the wrinkles of the page against the arm of the couch.

"It's just a picture, Dean. It's not really the car." Sam explained through a yawn, worming impossibly closer into the teen, as he shivered minutely.

The older boy reached up and tugged the blanket off the back of the couch, instinctively spreading it over the small frame next to him, as he spoke.

"Doesn't matter, bro. It's the principal of the thing."

Sam snickered, in what sounded like fond exasperation, as he fidgeted, pulling at the knitted fabric until it covered both him and his older brother. Dean's lips twitched and he laid his arm across the younger boy's shoulders, rubbing Sam's back through the blanket.

The youngest Winchester released a tired but content sigh, just as Dean knew he would, and wrinkled the teen's shirt as he nuzzled his head against his chest and stared ahead at the television.

Dean felt warmth spread through him, warmth he knew had nothing to do with the blanket that as now covering as much of his body as it possibly could.

Gawd, he loved his kid so fucking much, sometimes it felt like he was going to explode with the force of it.

"You're my home, De."

The whispered words were everything Dean had ever dared to dream of.

He had hoped the younger boy missed him when he was gone, even a fraction as much as Dean missed his baby brother.

He had hoped he made his little brother feel protected and cared for.

He had hoped he made Sam feel happy and peaceful.

He had hoped he made his kid feel loved.

He had _hoped_ and _dreamed_ for all of that.

But he had never dared to believe any of it would be the truth.

He had never imagined that he could be enough for Sam.

That he could be his little brother's home.

And to find out that he was, that everything he had ever risked hoping for was a reality; it was almost more than Dean could take.

This time, he didn't bother trying to stop the tear that escaped and snuck its way down the side of his face.

Instead, he rubbed his little' brother's back and combed his fingers lazily through the unruly hair, as he prepared to speak past the wad of feelings trapped in his esophagus.

Needing his baby brother to hear and understand Dean's reality

Wanting to tell Sammy the truth of what was in his heart.

Praying his kid would never forget it.

Because it would never change.

"You're mine too, Sammy."

**The End**

* * *

Note: I apologize for any spelling or grammatical errors. It is 6am and I have been up all night, so I'm not even seeing straight at this point ;) But I am gone all day tomorrow and I wanted to have this posted by the weekend. Thanks so much for reading! Please leave a comment/review if you have a moment, I would really appreciate it! :) - Sam


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